A Dangerous Game
by beebopshaobadop
Summary: Original prompt:    John is an addict to adrenaline. He is very good at dangerous things. And he plays a very dangerous game.  He lets his love for Sherlock show in small moments, without been discovered.  How long will it last ?


A/N the storyline is based on an anonymous prompt on livejournal. It's not how I see John, but I enjoyed writing it.

It was beta'd by the wonderful .net/~supermusicmad

Enjoy

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><p>The way to look at difficult things in life is as if they are a game. Just one huge game, filled with excitement and anticipation. Sherlock knows this too. In fact, that could well be why I like him so much. I'm not sure. But I am sure of one thing - the time for analysing this is over. I've thought and I've thought, and there's no explaining it. I love him. And I'm going to claim him.<p>

So today, everything changes. I feel the usual build up of nervous tension, tight inside my chest, as I begin my game. The feeling inspires me, propels me. Climbing from my bed, I realise my knees are shaking. There's quite a lot riding on this one, I guess. Better do my best, then. Slipping my feet into slippers, and pulling a dressing gown around my shoulders, I slide to the door of my room. Sherlock's door is slightly open. On impulse, I wander over and push it a little wider, peering through. He lies on his back, with his face turned to one side. The sunlight shining through the window dapples across his forehead, making his dark brown hair seem to shine. For a few moments, my eyes simply trace the contours of his face. He shifts, suddenly, and I jump. The ball of tension, coiled inside me, tightens, and I practically run out of the room. What would happen, I wonder, if Sherlock caught me just staring at him? This leads me to wonder; what would happen if Sherlock catches onto my little game? If he knows I am trying to manipulate him? If he learns, all at once, how I feel? The tremor that runs through me tells me what I already know. It would be bad, very bad, if Sherlock finds out. I had better be careful. More rests on this than I had first anticipated.

I make a coffee and some tea, and consider for a while. How best to do this? Fetching the newspaper, I sift through it, sipping my tea. Occasionally, I ring an article from the paper in green.

Eventually, he wakes up. Shuffling into the kitchen, he sits opposite me, and nods. Wordlessly, I push the coffee towards him. He frowns, surprised. Usually, I refuse to make him coffee.

"Thanks" He says, his voice not betraying any of the confusion he must be feeling.

"Morning" I reply, handing him the newspaper. This time, he does look confused. Before he can read too much into it, I stand and am gone. I risk a glance behind to find him buried in the paper, and I smile.

He comes to me, later.

"Lets go, then" He says. I am silent, confused. "The cases. The ones you pointed out to me. They're all linked, aren't they? That suicide, the fire, and those thefts. How could I have not seen it?"

"Because" I reply, excited, "unlike us lesser mortals, you consider yourself to be above simply reading a paper for entertainment." He shoots me a dirty look, and I stick my tongue out childishly, and we leave to solve a crime.

"How did you know, anyway?" He asks me, a few days later. He did, of course, solve the puzzle.

"I learned from the best" I reply, my voice sounding almost flirtatious. He frowns, but says no more. I step a little closer to him, my heart pounding. He does not notice. Again, closer. Eventually, I am standing right behind him. I am surprised he can't hear the thudding of my heart. I reach up on tiptoe, lean over him to the fireplace, and pick up the letters he has dropped there. Moving away, I allow my fingers to trail down his arm and across his neck. He shivers. Living with this man, you soon learn how to really see people. Sherlock always runs his fingers along his arms when he is stressed. It soothes him - and, I suspect, pleases him. He looks at me, and says nothing. I walk away.

For several days, we continue as always. I leave the game alone, take it slow. I am beginning to miss it though - the sweaty palms, the pounding heart, the nervous, jiggly feeling in my limbs. Almost like a drug, I ache for more of it. So the next time I surprise him with a coffee, I take it to his room. It is difficult to be secretive, circumspect, when you live with Sherlock Holmes. The man sees everything. And he seems to know just what it means, too. It is inevitable that I will get caught. Yet- miraculously - I can see that it is working. He is already slightly different around me. No longer does he simply turn his head away when I am finished speaking - now he pauses, really considering me. A small victory, perhaps, yet I also notice the way his fingertips shift towards me slightly when we are sat together. He has noticed the change in my behaviour, and now he wants to know why. He wants to examine me and discover what is different. My fear is that he will work it out before I can convince him that it's ok. A dangerous game this - I must hurry, or he will get there too soon. I must slow down, or he will get too irate to try and understand. A dangerous game indeed.

My behaviour continues, in erratic bouts. I touch his arms, neck, and hair when I do not need to. I lean towards him as he passes. I do small, nice things. I do nothing at all. I withdraw a little, frightened I have gone too fast. I flirt, almost blatantly. I compliment him. I ridicule him. Each of these behaviours, I learnt from his analysis of others, and I make full use of them. But Sherlock is different to other, and so I must do something more. I search for hours on end for something unusual, something I know will grab his attention, and then throw it to him casually. I am constantly searching for the next big idea - the game has become my life. For perhaps two weeks, this continues - until one day, he corners me.

I knew he would work me out. I cannot hope to outsmart a man like Sherlock, and as I see him loomed over me, I wonder why I ever tried. I begin to panic - I have been too manipulative, and I know with a cold certainty he will be furious at me. Trying to make him see me like that? It was madness, foolish. The thrill of the game, and the excitement, abandon me. Cruelly, they flee, and leave me feeling hollow, and quite frankly, terrified. To my intense surprise, Sherlock does not shout at me. In fact, he is smiling.

"I didn't see it" he mutters, almost to himself, not me. I listen tentatively. "I knew, of course, that you were trying to manipulate me. But to what possible end? It bothered me, I'll admit it. I was, for a while, quite worried. It never occurred to me that such an emotion could be the base of all your odd behaviours. I considered Mycroft, putting you up to something. In fact, that was my strongest theory. Yet you just had to go and take me by surprise, Doctor John Watson. You have quite an impressive way of doing that"

And to my even stronger surprise, he is kissing me.

A dangerous game, indeed. one well worth playing. I think I might have just won.


End file.
